


Neubauten

by FalleNess, Gwyllt



Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [3]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Explicit Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: Donald Ressler arrives at the crime scene and finds an old friend next to a dead body.
Relationships: Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley & Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley/Donald Ressler
Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796308
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	Neubauten

**Author's Note:**

> Woo-hoo! It's the fourth Prescott's fic xD I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Many-many thanks to FalleNess, who has read this through the night, correcting my mistakes. It's all on her.

Ressler’s footfalls were echoing all over an unfinished building, resonating through the empty doorways. He’d rather make less noise, but no matter how softly he trod, there was pretty much shit in his way. Pea gravel, rubble, nails, and crooked iron pieces—who the hell knows where all of this came from. It smelled like wet plaster and dust—it covered the floor and walls with a thick, even layer, whitening the transparent plastic on the windows and turning Ressler’s suit into shit.

Fucking worksites, fucking 'vation, fucking job, fucking… fucking all.

_"Short on cops in DC, Samar?"_

_"The building is outside the city, isn’t DC’s jurisdiction. Sure you wanna see local cops on the crime scene?"_

_"Oh, God. Fine, I’ll come."_

_"I owe you one. When the team gets out of the traffic jam, they'll join you on-site."_

A corpse with a gunshot wound and an unfinished building—a contract kill, no doubt. Ressler could bet both his head and badge. Probably, the man was murdered right there—it made no sense dragging the corpse all along onto a fifth-floor to hide it. Drop it on the first floor and be done with it. If it was up to Ressler, he would have preferred to throw the body into the basement or ditch and pour the cement in it—and no one would ever find anything. Perhaps, the witness who called had scared the killer away, so then he decided not to push his luck and get the fuck out of here.

His fingers squeezing the gun’s grip, Ressler carefully peeped around the corner—just in case if the killer _was_ pushing the luck. The long-term undercover job taught him a lesson: no man can be too careful.

And Ressler’s caution was rewarded in no time.

A few feet forward, right behind dusty celluloid stretched in the door aperture, loomed a dark silhouette.

Could be either debris or a corpse.

Judging by the footprints in the dust _—_ the dust saves prints as good as concrete _—_ it was the second one.

Ressler wiped a drop of sweat off his nose, cursing at the heat and dress-code. He could’ve come here in shorts and a T-shirt—but who would take an FBI agent seriously if he wore shorts? Of course, a damn two-piece suit made an agent the Agent, and not Quantico...

Ressler froze half-step through, his soles stuck to the floor; there was someone behind the transparent screen—he could see the movements. Either the corpse was alive—which was doubtful—or the killer was still here.

Awesome. Just awesome. This could have happened only to him.

Ressler took another step forward, the realization hitting him like a hammer: whoever was there, if only he wasn’t a complete moron, he could also see the movement on the opposite side of the celluloid screen. Before Ressler scrambled for another thought, his body reacted faster, and he raised his hands, his fingers gripping his gun tightly.

“FBI, hands in the air!” Ressler barked at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the walls. “Freeze!”

“I was just passing by, Agent..?” The voice didn’t sound frightened or anxious. _Maybe,_ Ressler thought, _it is a witness, after all, the one who has called the cops. Decided to stay to help the investigation? Fulfill the civil duty?_

Too bad Ressler didn’t believe in miracles.

“Special Agent Donald Ressler.” He yanked the celluloid off and it fell on the floor. “Yeah, passing by and deciding to admire the corpse—”

Ressler choked on his own words when he saw whom he was talking to.

Because right in front of him, squatted down over the corpse, his hands raised, was Henry-fucking-Prescott.

“Fuck me,” Ressler exhaled when his ability to speak returned, the relief fulfilling him like a balloon, almost lifting him above the floor. Fucking miracles, indeed. “Prescott! I’ll be damned! You’re under arrest on suspicion of first-degree murder!”

A crooked grin spread over Prescott’s thin lips—the bastard would have rather slipped out of this shit, but there was no way to twist it, no way to escape. _You're busted, bitch, right next to the body,_ the thought throbbed in Ressler’s head. A fucking lot of footprints on the scene, and no need to call the forensics—the guilt was written all over bastard’s face. _Caught in the act. A fucking wet dream._

Ressler fumbled in his pocket and threw the handcuffs at Prescott. They landed on the corpse’s back, next to the round, neat bullet hole. Prescott didn’t move an inch, and Ressler waved his gun at him.

“All good, no? Need a hand with this?”

“If you are offering—how can I resist?” Prescott smiled again, his grin growing wider this time. Ressler, not without a tinge of satisfaction, registered the absence of fun in that fucking smile. The bastard wasn't dumb and knew how bad it looked.

“You what, trying to get the upper hand?” Ressler gestured with his gun, not buying the bullshit. “I know all your fucking tricks, each and every one of them. Put the cuffs on, or I swear, I’ll make a couple of extra holes in your body.”

“Oh,” Prescott obeyed and took the handcuffs, clasping one cuff around his wrist but not hurrying to do the same with the second one. “Never thought you like it rough, Agent Ressler.”

“I am not kidding. I’ll shoot you in the knee.” Once Ressler said it, his leg started aching—old wounds didn’t really heal. “And it will fucking hurt. Forget grooving for the rest of your life.”

Prescott didn’t look away, just narrowed his eyes, but barely from embarrassment. Guys like him don’t know what embarrassment is.

“Listen, Agent Ressler, on what grounds are you arresting me?” Prescott didn’t move, and Ressler wasn’t an asshole to shoot for no reason. “Isn’t it the part where you ask me to come with you and answer some questions? I mean, politely and with respect for my rights, because with no evidence…”

Although sometimes Ressler regretted he wasn’t an asshole.

“You sit next to the dead guy. This looks like ‘no evidence’ to you?”

“Yeah, of course.” It seemed like Prescott almost rolled his eyes back, and the blood started thumping in Ressler’s ears. “There is one problem, though: if I killed him, then where is the murder weapon?”

“You threw it away when you heard me coming,” Ressler spat, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I said, cuff yourself!”

The gun didn’t tremble in his fingers, didn’t slip out despite the heat, the muzzle pointing straight at Prescott’s chest.

And Ressler had a very, very strong desire to pull the trigger.

This desire must have been reflected in his eyes, because Prescott squinted and clasped the second cuff to his right wrist, and showed his now chained hands to Ressler. _Look at you, a law-abiding citizen._

“I understand, Agent Ressler, you have some... prejudices against me.” Prescott, bastard, stared into his eyes with no sign of fear. “But even if there _is_ a murder weapon somewhere, it doesn’t have my fingerprints. And no gunshot residue on my clothes, either.”

“Shut up. I don’t care. It’s on forensics to find out.”

“I am not a killer, Ressler,” Prescott’s voice changed, colder and more distant now. “And you know it. If I had killed this guy, you’d never have caught me like this.”

“Maybe you’re not as smart as you think,” Ressler said, enjoying himself. “And you know what? I don’t care. Don’t give a single fuck about this. I am arresting you. Period. The forensics will figure the rest. Maybe you’re not guilty, who knows, but I’m giving you my word, you’ll get a couple of cozy nights at the DC Jail. And, maybe, while you’re there, something else turns up, Henry Prescott.”

“Your solid principles gave way to the wounded ego?” Prescott raised his eyebrows.

Ressler grunted and raised the gun higher, pointing the muzzle right at Prescott’s face this time.

“As if you know what ‘principles’ means.” If only Prescott wasn’t so damn right. “Fuck!” Ressler swore under his breath but didn’t lower the gun, just took a half-step forward to Prescott.

Of course, Ressler knew. He knew that Prescott didn’t kill the man—for fuck’s sake, one had to be not just dumb, but a complete idiot to wait for the cops hovering over the body—but he wanted to nail Prescott down, somehow, anyhow...

Wait a sec.

Ressler smirked, struck by a thought: of course, Prescott didn’t kill this man. But he certainly knew who did. He didn’t hang out in here, for fuck’s sake…

“Fine, ”Ressler said, giving in to common sense. “If you wanna get out—start talking.”

“Talking?” Prescott blinked, playing the innocent.

“Don’t fuck with me! Who is your client?”

“I’d love to tell you, Agent Ressler, but honesty is _so_ damaging in this line of business,” Prescott squinted his eyes, cat-like as if Sauer wasn’t pointed at his face.

Ressler was this close from pulling the trigger—and fuck the testimony.

“It’s do or die, Prescott. Talk.”

“Or what?” Prescott’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “You’ll shoot me? Go ahead. I wish I could hear the excuses you’re gonna feed your colleagues with.”

Ressler’s temples pounded.

“I’ll just tell them you assaulted me. It’s my word against yours.”

“Assaulted you, armed with charm and charisma?” Prescott wiggled his chained hands’ fingers. “And I have the handcuff marks because I'm usually going on a wild spree before the job. Right, yeah.”

Prescott was obviously mocking him—Ressler saw the twinkle in his blue eyes; he saw it in his taunting grin, hidden in the corners of Prescott’s lips. In a way, this kind of _(self)_ confidence bonded them with Reddington: whatever fuck-up turned up, but both of them managed to look like this fuck-up was designed by them personally, and even—on top of that—paid from their pocket.

In the dim light, Ressler saw the mockery in Prescott’s eyes—and the desire to pull the trigger overwhelmed him.

It ripped his chest open, blindfolding him, reached for his gun— _just-pull-the-fucking-trigger-and-he-will-never-say-a-word_ —and Ressler did the only possible thing he could: he pulled himself together and, with an accustomed movement, clicked the safety on—his insurance that the worst wouldn’t happen.

And then he lost it.

The gun’s butt whacked against Prescott’s cheekbone as if on its own accord. Ressler’s palm grew numb at once, and Prescott’s head snapped back so fast that Ressler heard his teeth clacking. Prescott took a step back for one foot, and then raised his eyes on Ressler, his stare full of—

Well, Ressler couldn’t figure what, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t Prescott’s usual expression: his put-on pretense and cockiness were gone, exposing something else. Something behind the mask.

A crimson spot—Ressler could see the gun’s butt markings printed right on Prescott’s skin— spread on his well-shaved cheek, promising to turn into a livid bruise. And Prescott stared at him—stared and stared, this time his usual mockery gone off his face. Just caution and a shadow of fear left.

Ressler’s thoughts thrashed around his brain, but he didn’t get to say anything—Prescott beat him to it.

“Well done, Agent Ressler. I assume this is what they teach you at Quantico?” he raised his handcuffed hands, suggestively spreading his palms.

With his trained eyes, Ressler saw Prescott trying not to move his lips—he barely opened his mouth. Contrary to his usual agile expression, such unnatural immobility prompted Ressler—he went a little too far.

A little, yeah—hitting an unarmed man in his face with a gun.

Disgust spilled in the Ressler’s soul, poisoning him like petroleum poisons the sea. A brief flash of rage was fading out slowly, dissolving in his thoughts, and his hand with the gun trembled. Ressler had never lied to himself, he just couldn’t, and he had to swallow it—he actually did it. Hit a man with a gun when there was no reason to. Of course, this bastard deserved it—but fucking hell, hitting an unarmed man..!

A gun burned his hand, prompting—yeah, you really hit him very hard, Donnie—and Prescott’s wounded cheek was growing blue, a chain of handcuffs glinting in the dark.

Yeah, well done, Agent Ressler. Hitting not only unarmed—restrained, too.

_You're so quick to forget your oaths, Agent Ressler—especially the ones you give to yourself._

“For fuck’s sake!” Ressler roared at the top of his lungs and tucked the gun behind his belt. “Fucking hell! Motherfucking cunt, fuckass, fucking twat!”

Screams hit the ceiling and crumbled back on Ressler with white dust.

“I’m flattered,” Prescott just could not keep his mouth shut, and Ressler pointed a forefinger on him.

“Don’t push me. Just d—just shut the fuck up!”

There was no siren, no gravel crunching under the car wheels, nothing—they were still alone, and the task force was somewhere on its way, stuck in a traffic jam or so. They were alone, and—fucking hell—Ressler didn’t know what to do.

“What now, Agent Ressler? We'll be standing here until your team arrives? And then what?” Prescott smiled, but the way he did it—flared nostrils and tightened lips—indicated the pain he was dealing with. “You’ll say what, I accidentally fell during the arrest?”

Ressler swore once again, whispering this time. Prescott fixed his eyes on him, standing right there with his unaltered fucking dignity. As if he hadn’t been caught on the crime scene but invited to a tea party with the President himself, despite cuffed hands and battered face, his jaw was swelling more and more.

He seemed ready to face the consequences.

It was Ressler who wasn’t ready to answer the inevitable questions.

Fuck, he hit him pretty hard, no one argued that. How could he justify it? “Fell”? Fell-my-ass—whatever story he made, people would talk, give him _that_ look, whisper behind his back… And Reddington, of course, wouldn’t miss the opportunity to make a fucking remark about it, just like he always did.

_"Found a new hobby, Agent Ressler?"_

“Fucking shit,” Ressler summarized, surrendering—swearing made an unpleasant process a bit easier. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a little key, and, not leaving himself a chance to hesitate, approached Prescott and opened the handcuffs. Technically, he was innocent. “Get the fuck out from here until I change my mind.”

Prescott rubbed his wrists, taking his time, his long fingers curling around them—Ressler could have bet his monthly salary this waxy fag was a regular at the manicurist’s. He’d even bet the badge for it.

“Thank you, Agent Ressler,” Prescott barely articulated the words. Ressler saw his eye swelling—he isn’t getting away without a bruise. “It was a pleasure doing business with you. As always.”

“Fuck off and walk,” Ressler put the handcuffs in his pocket.

Prescott nodded and sauntered towards the stairway, his footfalls drumming the steady rhythm across dusty floors. He straightened his shoulders, flexing his numb muscles, thinking he'd better call the local cops next time. And let them deal with all the shit.

“Ressler,” a low intimate voice brought him back to reality.

“What did I just say?!” Ressler barked, turning around.

Prescott stood at the stairway, and Ressler could only see his shoulders above the floor.

“I heard, the majority stake is a tidbit for anyone who wants to arrogate a business. Not that I know much about it, of course.”

His impenetrable gaze slid over Ressler’s face, and then Prescott disappeared from his sight for good.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Новостройка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107851) by [Gwyllt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt)




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